


Lemons

by wisia



Category: DCU
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisia/pseuds/wisia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Janet Drake is a BAMF and Tim picks up what he knows from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> May add more chapters later. On here, it's stringing the various parts of it together in order from what I wrote on tumblr.

Tim wrinkled his nose. The air was so citrusy, and he hated it. But he didn’t have a choice. Mrs. Mac wasn't available to take care of him. So he was at Momma’s office today, armed with a math workbook and crayons. Tim rubbed at his nose, trying to get rid of the smell.

“Quit rubbing your nose,” Janet said sharply. Tim flinched, hand dropping back to his side. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, Momma.” Tim hesitated as Janet looked over him, eyes stern and noting for signs of illness. “It’s just…it smells so lemony.”

Janet’s expression softened slightly, and she laughed. “I supposed it is a bit lemony in here.”

She patted her lap. “Come here.”

And Tim obediently climbed onto her lap, taking care not to mess up the gray woolen skirt. But Janet crushed Tim to her, hair still neat, and Tim tried not to fidget. Momma smelled strongly of lemons.

“Do you know why I like lemons over all the perfumes out there?”

“Like Chanel?” Tim asked naming one of the brands he saw on Momma’s vanity.

“Yes.”

“Um…,” Tim stared down at the reports on Janet’s desk. “They’re too strong?”

“No,” Janet said, and Tim was fascinated by the serious look in her eyes. “Lemons are clean. A nice clean smell.”

“Oh,” Tim said, but he didn’t really understand it. Janet caught it. “If you don’t understand it, don’t lie.”

Tim bowed his head, biting the inside of his cheek at the reprimand. “Sorry, Momma.”

Janet nodded, accepting the apology. It would do. She stood up, taking Tim with her, and walked over to the large window where her office overlooked the grimy downtown of Gotham.

“At the top or at the bottom, it’s always better to be clean. And lemons are clean. That's why I like lemons. They cover anything up almost.”

Tim watched as Janet stared out, studying the world outside. The movement of the cars, the people walking below, the trees and the dark, dark gloom that always clung to Gotham. Tim peeked outside too, trying to see what Momma saw. Then Janet put Tim down.

“I have work to do,” she said brusquely, returning to her desk. “Read your book.”

“Yes, Momma.”

And Tim dreamt of walking, talking lemons that night and bubbles and foam.

\-------

He was his mother’s son.

And Tim looked at the Red Robin costume lying on his bed. He gritted his teeth.

He was his mother’s son. More than Bruce’s soldier. And if he had to descend, it was on his mother’s terms. Never on Bruce’s. Because Bruce’s was to die, to sacrifice and give relentlessly without pause.

He picked up the fabric, held it against his body, the material fluid and knew the cape would ripple. Would steel against bullet and fire and hide.

[But Momma? Oh, Momma wasn’t like Bruce because don’t you know? Mothers love their children, and Janet for all that she was cold and stern was a mother. And Tim would thrive, survive and live.]

He pulled on the cowl, stretched and posed in front of the mirror. Felt the fabric taut on skin, gloved hands on belt and the heaviness.

Tim was his mother’s son. And his lips thinned grimly before the mirror.

Bruce was alive, even if Dick didn’t believe him. He would prove it.

He was his mother’s son in will and red and blood.

\-----------

Obsession is frightening, and Tim had it in spades. Had it worked into his blood and flesh. Because if Janet Drake taught her son anything, more than lemons and songs and face paint, it was obsession. It was marked into his skin, and he could spot an obsession, his obsessions a mile away. No, Janet didn’t do things idly. Lemon scented and always clean, she took Tim with her. Showed him her obsessions. And he watched with his child eyes, branding to memory. Because she was always teaching without doing so outright.

Artifacts lined in neat rows, labeled and fixed and testimony to Janet’s obsessive nature. Graced the shelves behind glass and wood. Paperwork and files and late nights away from Tim’s crib. Learned how obsession consumes, takes you away and while he was lonely in that house because Janet chased her obsessions and took Jack with her, Tim studied. Started with a camera and a journal and pattered away into the shadows, following.

Tim never showed Janet his photos, but he was sure she knew. Momma knew everything and she took that and lemons and ice cold Janet to the extremes. She would know even if dead.

Obsession is frightening, but Tim had mastered it at the feet of Janet Drake. Knew it intimately. Had it weld to his soul. And when everything was lost, he had that. That to pull himself through breathing.

So, he smiled at Scarecrow. Because Momma would have laughed and said not to mess with the poor boy. He smiled wider.

\----------

\-------

There was a jewelry box located underneath Tim’s bed, wrapped in cloth to protect from dust and mites. The jewelry box was made of polished dark wood with a black handle. There were no other ornaments or flourishes to crown the panels, not even an engraving of “Janet Drake” because it once belonged to his mother. Inside the box were tubes of lipsticks, an ivory backed hairbrush, perfume—and strangely, it featured thin delicate looking utensils. Forks, spoons, knives all in a reddish brown color that wasn’t painted on but metal. Unearthly, strange and strong. The box held other feminine articles as well, but the thing that caught Tim’s attention was a silver ring.

And Tim rarely took it out, removed the cloth and opened it. But he opened it now. Slid it out from under his bed, pushed away the fabric and the hinges creaked when Tim cracked the lid just the slightest. He smiled at the box in his hand, smiled at the various items inside. He was going to make momma proud.

\--------------

Momma did know best, and Tim heard her voice as he lifted out a tube of lipstick, the silver almost glowing in the soft fading sunlight. He fingered the cap and listened, breathing in the fade scent of lemon and verbena.

He was six, and Momma was dressing. He was perched on the vanity table, still because Momma didn’t like unnecessary movement such as leg swinging. Janet studied her son with a critical eye as she opened her jewelry box, the diamonds and rubies and emeralds gleaming.

“I may not have a daughter,” Janet said, “but you are delicate enough to be one. It is a shame you aren’t built like Jack.”

The disapproval was clear in her voice, but as Janet’s eyes landed on a silver tube she smiled suddenly. She picked up the tube. “You will learn this.”

And Tim popped the cap off the tub, hand steady just as he watched Momma’s hand stayed steady. The stick inside was a dark, dark red. It had hardly been used, but it was Momma’s special lipstick.

“Red is power,” Janet had told her son. “But you must understand there are different shades of red.”

Tim applied this red, this special red to his lips with care. Making sure it was even and smooth. And applied the blush, the mascara, every single step with the greatest of reverence. Because Momma said, “there is something to respect about the things you use. Always have respect.”

He supposed she meant to never underestimate someone, but the results were the same. And Tim scooped the ring, the silver ring from the box. Because out of all of Momma’s jewelry that was the final touch. He slipped it onto his finger and watched as Janet Drake kissed the smooth silver of the ring, her ghost floating and appraising.

Yes, Tim thought. Momma did know best, and he spritzed on the lemon and verbena his mother so favored. Because it was a clean scent.

“Don’t I know best?” Janet asked.

“Yes, Momma. You do.”

\----------

“You surprise me, Detective,” Ra’s said as he took in Tim’s form. Tim was dressed to impressed, and Ra’s was impressed. Tim smiled at him, lips colored a dark, dark red. “I thought you have seen everything, considering your years of existence.”

Tim’s smile widened and he breezed across the seemingly long carpet to settle onto Ra’s’ desk in a flutter of scarlet silk.

“There are things you can only see once,” Ra's said.

Tim laughed, placing a well manicured hand onto Ra’s’ cheek. The silver on his ring gleamed. “You are more than flattering. Have you seen the show?”

“Your dismantling of my men was impossible to miss,” Ra’s said dryly. “It was exquisite. However, it is a waste of my funds.”

“I learned from the best,” Tim said, voice throaty and low. Ra’s quirked an inquisitive eyebrow. “I was under the impression such things were condone.”

Tim laughed again, at the thought of Batman being the best because while Bruce normally was, he wasn’t here. Not for wet work. Not for personal wars. He stroked Ra’s’ cheek gently, a nail biting into the soft flesh.

“My best was my mother in a lemon dress,” and Tim leaned in closer to Ra’s till they were cheek to cheek. “And you never mess with mother.”

“I can imagine,” Ra’s replied. “Though I have not thought of my mother in years.”

“Do you even remember her?” Tim asked, his other hand curling on Ra’s’ shoulder, moving closer.

“Tell me about your mother,” Ra’s commanded. “She sounds intriguing.”

“She is,” Tim agreed, pulling away from Ra’s. “Did you know she always smelled like lemons? It’s such a clean scent.”

He drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. Then, he fingered the silver ring as if he could hear Janet speaking to him through it. “Lemons are great for covering up the smell of blood.”

“I smell lemons on you,” Ra’s stated, and Tim was near feral in his lips painted a dark, dark red. “Send your men to me again, and you’ll smell it even in death.”

\-----------

Tim smiled at the man's whose lap he was in. He pressed a finger to his red painted lips.

"Oh, it'll be our little secret," he whispered. "No one has to know."

"It'll be our little secret," Janet Drake whispered to her son. "No one has to know." 

Tim bobbed his head solemnly. "I know, Momma."

And he smiled even wider when the man nodded his chubby chin, pinched Tim's butt and let Tim slide off gracefully. To lock the door. Tim walked, sashaying his hips, his heels making a soft clacking against the wooden floor. 

Janet cradled Tim in his arm. "How about a song? You'll like that, yes?"

And Tim did because Janet had the most captivating voice ever. It wasn't the prettiest, but it was momma's.

"Why don't I sing a song for you?" Tim asked as he locked the door, turning back toward the man. The man agreed, and Tim glided over to him. He placed a hand over the man's eyes.

"Need to keep your eyes close. Or you'll ruin the beauty of the song." Tim laughed, voice high and airy. The man closed his eyes, relaxing and missing the movement of TIm's other hand sliding down his thigh.

"Keep your eyes close, sweetie."

"Yes, Momma."

And Janet sang. "Watch out, Momma's gonna blow this popsicle stand."

"Momma's going blow this popsicle stand," and Tim lifted his skirt, fingers wrapping around the cool metal of a gun hidden, strapped to his thigh.

"Momma's coming out to play tonight."

Janet hummed, rocking Tim in her arms. Tim snuggled against her, the sound vibrating in his ear against Janet's throat.

"There ain't no more lemons, no lemon water. Ain't no more lemons."

"Gotta get your drink elsewhere tonight," Janet trilled, ending the note on a literal bang.

Tim smiled down at the man, re-holstering the gun at his thigh. The man was perfectly asleep and safe. Just like momma had taught him. Because momma knew best and Tim would pay homage to her memory.


End file.
